


Almost Home

by Berty



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Anal Sex, Angst with a Happy Ending, Boys Kissing, Captain John Watson, First Time, Gay Bar, John Watson Goes to War, M/M, Memories, Mutual Masturbation, POV John Watson, Pining John, Porn With Plot, Protective Big Brother Mycroft, Time Skips, Tiny bit of case fic if you squint, University Student Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-26
Updated: 2019-04-26
Packaged: 2020-02-04 15:48:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,871
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18607630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Berty/pseuds/Berty
Summary: "He pulls out the ID card – the one that Sherlock had somehow seen when he was buying drinks at that awful club. He’s had other ID cards since then but he's hung on to this one for some reason. He looks at the image of his face, young and pale and idealistic, and he knows that just a month later that man would have found and lost the love of his life within a week, and even knowing that, John wouldn’t change a single thing."





	Almost Home

**For the fifth time in ten minutes John looks at his wrist and remembers that he hasn’t put on his watch this morning. He crosses his arms tightly, leans back on the ugly, uncomfortable chair and glares out at the grubby concourse of St Pancras Station. Tired people, business people, happy people, tourists and students wash back and forth in an ever-changing tide of colour and noise – hundreds of reasons, hundreds of lives and not a single one of them is as pathetic as Captain John Watson RAMC (retd).**

**He should go.**

**He shouldn’t have come in the first place.**

**He wasn’t going to, but he’s been watching this date come closer on the calendar, like he watches it every year. And before when it’s come and gone, he just watches for the next year. It’s never marked – he doesn’t need it to be – it’s been like a mantra to him for the last eight years. It’s a half-remembered reason to get up in the morning, an incentive to persevere no matter how much he has wanted to give up and a promise of comfort on the coldest, most seemingly endless nights.**

**And that, right there, is the problem.**

**Nobody’s promised anyone anything.**

**John has been building this whole fantasy up in his mind. A few sentences exchanged through a train window years ago, an affair at best, words whispered in the heat of an emotional moment. Even an idiot knows better than to take such a fragile collection of memories and turn it into something it wasn’t intended to be or use it as their personal talisman. Only an idiot would still remember the date after all this time.**

**John swipes a hand though his hair, grimaces at how long it’s getting and then reaches for his coffee. It’s cold but he swallows it down anyway. He’s getting cold too, even through his thickest jacket, and the ache in his leg is singing low and insistently through his entire body, surging in his neck and shoulders, throbbing in his jaw and temples. He decides to warm himself with one more coffee before he heads back to his crappy little bedsit – he’s in no hurry. He sits here, he sits there; it makes little difference really. He starts to rise from his chair, but the young guy clearing tables takes his mug and asks if he’d like another.**

**“Oh, yeah, that would be great,” John says trying to assemble a smile. “Thanks.”**

**It only takes him a minute to return with a brimming fresh mug full, steaming into the chilly air. John nods his gratitude, pays the guy and resettles himself in an equally uncomfortable position to watch the ebb and flow of London travellers.**

**John has always thought railway stations to be exciting places. Though not necessarily romantic, they are filled with potential for change - love affairs, fresh starts, secrets, running away, trysts and possibilities, shaking off the old and embracing the new. He has to admit that the modern, plastic veneer spread thinly over the Victorian bones of the architecture here doesn’t exactly inspire him though. It’s bloody depressing if anything.**

**This is as close as he can get to the right platform. There are big signs up, advising him of the improvements being made behind the hoardings and assuring him that his travelling experience will be significantly improved once this work is complete. A peek through the gaps showed him that anything familiar was gone along with most of the platform. Thwarted, John took refuge in the nearest seat to where the ticket barriers used to be, which turned out to be this café, tucked to one side with its ugly seating and a view of the station concourse, out of the wind but chilly nonetheless.**

**He waits.**

**For Sherlock Holmes.**

**John had thought he was joking when he’d told him his name, not that it was how he’d first introduced himself. John can’t really blame him for that though; he’d given Sherlock a false name too to begin with. It had been that kind of a place, the club that they’d met in. John had finally plucked up the courage to go there to see if he had the nerve to actually do something to scratch the itch he’d been trying to ignore since he was fifteen, but he hadn’t expected anything like Sherlock, or Will, which was how he’d introduced himself.**

_“J…James… Davis,” John blurted in return and smiled, trying to distract Will from his woeful improvisation skills._

_“Have you been here before,” Will asked, sipping the Coke John had bought him, all silver eyes, long fingers and cheekbones._

_“No. I’m only in town for a few days actually.”_

_That much was true at least. John, just finished training, couldn’t stomach the prospect of a week of silence and polite disapproval from his family, so he’d headed for London, intent on spending his last days before deployment sampling the delights of the city. He was a young man on his way to war – who knew when he’d next get a chance to really let his metaphorical hair down? Somehow it just hadn’t worked out that way – as John had found too many reasons to get out and look for what he wanted. The reality had been matinee showings of films he’d already seen at mostly empty cinemas and walking the streets late into the night to avoid his cheap hotel and its pervasive sweat and air freshener scent._

_So Will was an anomaly; a shining, sexy, surprising anomaly in the disappointingly dull week before John left for Afghanistan. Even in a club full of noise and colour and lights and attractive, available men he was something different, something **other**_. _Something brilliant and compelling and special._

_And he’d chosen to speak to John._

_“Great place, don’t you think?” Will asked, leaning in close to be heard over the thud of the bass and John couldn’t help but notice how his buttons strained as the shirt tightened across his chest._

_“Oh, yeah. Great,” John lied, soaking up the heat of Will’s long body so close to his own. He sipped his lager and nodded to the beat wondering how he could persuade the goddess of fortune to smile on him this once and let him find something clever to say to impress the beautiful boy._

_“Or not, actually. I’m bored. So, do you want to get out of here?” Will asked causing John to snort Carlsberg out of his nose._

_Will just grinned in a sly, quiet way that John was pretty certain he was going to learn to adore._

_“God, yes!” John replied once he’d stopped choking, and he let himself be dragged out of the club and into the city at night – a much more exciting prospect now he had William Scott as his guide._

_They walked seemingly at random for twenty minutes and then ate at an excellent Chinese restaurant that Will insisted was the best in the area according to the evidence from the bottom third of its door handle. The guy was obviously completely mental but there was a glint in his eye that made John wonder if he didn’t already know that. They stuffed themselves with chicken, water chestnuts and rice, laughed at Will’s terrible efforts at predicting the fortune cookies and talked for over an hour without realising how late it had become._

_Spilling onto a quiet street, warm and relaxed, John realised that he felt happier than he had in months. He liked the army. He liked medicine. He was a good soldier and an excellent surgeon – he’d found a place he could be useful, but this easy friendship they were nurturing into life had nothing to do with usefulness and everything to do with joyfulness._

_“So when do you ship out?” Will asked as their giggles subsided into a suddenly awkward silence, their eyes meeting in a way that John wasn’t entirely used to. His gaze was direct and searching, and John would normally have looked away, embarrassed by such candour, but there was something about this tall, slim, fiercely intelligent man that made John look right back this time._

_He blinked at him. “How did you know I was shipping out?”_

_“I didn’t know. I observed. Afghanistan or Iraq?”_

_John blinked some more and Will rolled his eyes at him._

_“Your haircut is very recent and regulation length. The way you hold yourself screams military. You have an army ID card in your wallet and from the Staff of Asclepius insignia, you’re a medical man, most likely a doctor with a specialism in emergency surgery going by your hands. You’re not from London originally, but you have found your way to a back street gay club, an infamous place for hook-ups and the kind of no-strings attached sex that suggests only short-term entanglements are your goal. So you are looking for a one-night stand, possibly because you are not out or because you’re going to be leaving London soon, but most likely both. You are sexually inexperienced with men and looking to experiment before you leave to take up a post, which will provide very few instances of privacy for you to indulge your curiosity without the threat of disciplinary charges. This most likely means a combat zone so… Afghanistan or Iraq?”_

_John stared as Will’s face went from animated to wary, and he wondered how many times Will had experienced a negative reaction to his deductive displays. Will rolled his lips into his mouth and looked away, his shoulders dropping in resignation._

_“That was… amazing,” John breathed. He was still trying to count the direct hits in the spew of words._

_Will stilled and turned slowly back to John again, hesitation in every gesture. “You think so?”_

_“Of course it was. It was extraordinary. It was quite… extraordinary.”_

_His head tipped to one side, Will watched John with a puzzled frown. “That’s not what people normally say,” he muttered._

_“Do they normally tell you to piss off?”_

_Will snorted a quick laugh of surprise, lending John the daring to step closer to the lanky madman who quirked a charming, lopsided smile his way. “As a matter of fact, they do. Idiots.”_

_John grinned in return. “So if that club is as notorious as you say, then why were you there?” he asked, suddenly bold, and cringed when he realised what a loaded question he was asking. Who the hell was he to judge where Will chose to spend his evenings? Hadn’t he gone there himself looking for a hook-up?_

_Will just sniffed and shrugged an elegant shoulder. “I was looking for someone.”_

_“Ah! Did you find them?”_

_Apparently John had lost all the sense he’d been born with and now only had a sizeable repertoire of graceless enquiries rather than actual conversational skills. Clearly the goddess of fortune’s favours had been used up and John was on his own, but he was still surprised to feel a stab of resentment that Will might have spent the evening with anyone else._

_But once again Will didn’t seem to notice how tactless John was being. “No,” he said, narrowing his eyes as if John was something unexpected. “I met you instead.”_

_Studying Will’s face, John waited for a punchline that never came. When he realised that Will was being completely serious he felt a slick, warm flip of anticipation in his belly and let his eyes drop momentarily to Will’s perfect mouth._

_“Tuesday,” he admitted quietly. “Afghanistan.”_

_Will took a deep breath and hesitated a moment before saying, “I live nearby, about five minutes away. Would you… would you like to come over for a while?”_

_He gestured over his shoulder, pointing the way, but John only had eyes for Will._

_He couldn’t have been much more than twenty, John thought. He had a kind of energy about him that was barely contained in his slender frame – it leaked out in gusts of laughter, in the depth and intensity of his voice, the sweep of his gestures and in the constant motion of his fingers and hands. He was the most enticing thing John had ever seen and he was unable to remember ever wanting anything more than he wanted to go home with Will Scott in that moment._

_“Okay,” John murmured. “Yeah, okay.” He fell into step with him, their arms brushing together as they walked._

**John looks at his bare arm where his watch still isn’t and breathes out a very rude word, very quietly. He awkwardly bends over to his right and cranes his neck in a way that allows him to catch a glimpse of the departures board and the digital clock.**

**He should have tried to contact him – written him a card or tried to track down a number. He’d wondered over the years how a conversation would have gone. Many times he had persuaded himself to write – he’d even got as far as putting pen to paper once or twice – but each time he’d been too nervous to follow through for fear that his efforts would have been ignored or met with blank confusion. Just because he dreamed of Sherlock didn’t mean that the opposite was true. And once that communication bridge had been crossed you could never return to the other side, where it was safe and your memories and expectations were still whole.**

**He takes his wallet from his back pocket to check whether he’s got change to leave a tip but his fingers linger on a dog-eared photograph tucked deep in the lining. The colours have faded over the years but the image is so familiar to him that he doesn’t need to look at it at all anymore to remember that weekend, the smell of tea and rain, how sweet Sherlock’s kisses had been and how bright the prickle of the stubble burn on his skin.**

**Instead he pulls out the ID card – the one that Sherlock had somehow seen when he was buying drinks at that awful club. He’s had other ID cards since then but he’s hung on to this one for some reason. He looks at the image of his face, young and pale and idealistic, and he knows that just a month later that man would have found and lost the love of his life within a week, and even knowing that, John wouldn’t change a single thing.**

_They fell on each other the second the scruffy door to Will’s untidy little flat closed behind them. Chairs scraped across the floor and piles of books toppled as they careered across the living space towards the bedroom. Urgent kisses, rough hands and so much desire between them, it spiralled up and up, feeding off itself, making John dizzy. Talking and breathing became secondary to the touch of Will’s mouth and the urge to have his hands on him at all times._

_This was so much more than an itch to be scratched and forgotten. If John had stopped to think about it, it would have scared him to have found so much intensity in their instant connection; it was unlike anything he had experienced before. He couldn’t bear to have Will’s attention anywhere but on him, his strange, grey eyes drinking him in. He wanted everything Will had to give and wanted to give everything in return. He longed to be seen for who he was and for nothing to be held back from this man’s sharp, intelligent gaze. It was terrifying and liberating in equal measure._

_Will didn’t seem to have a lot of moves despite his confidence at the club, something which intrigued John no end. John had had his share of flings and a couple of longer-term girlfriends in the past. He’d also had a few seedy blowjobs in the bathrooms of pubs he knew he shouldn’t have been in with men who’d liked young, fit, smaller partners. John knew how to kiss though, and his efforts seemed appreciated when he took control of their kisses judging by the hums of encouragement that rumbled from Will’s throat. He was thorough. He made sure that Will felt every flick of his tongue, each soft suck on his lips, each fingertip as he slid them through the riot of messy, dark curls on his brilliant head._

_Will’s bedroom seemed a little clearer than his sitting room, but they still managed to elbow a table lamp and send it crashing to the floor. Will sniggered against John’s lips but they didn’t even stop to look. They undressed each other with shaking hands, clumsy and desperate, unwilling to stop kissing for something as mundane as buttons and fabric._

_Will was naked first, his shirt and dark, tight jeans a sorry-looking heap at his feet. Even knowing how rude it was, John stopped and stared when Will stepped out of his briefs and shucked his socks. But he hadn’t seemed to have much care much for social niceties up to then and so it was now. He simply stood for John’s scrutiny, not challenging, but inviting him to look his fill, his chin lifted a little and his cock almost fully hard already and bobbing before him._

_He was perfect; slim but strong, arrogant but innocent. In the glow of the streetlights through the window Will’s pale skin looked flawless. He had no hair on his chest, only a light dusting on his legs and a trail on his belly that spread down to his groin, trimmed and neat unlike the curls on his head. His cock was proportional to the rest of him, longish, not too thick and circumcised which John had never seen up close other than on patients, in medical texts or in the couple of porn magazines he’d kept hidden over the years. The desire to reach out and touch was almost overwhelming but his nerve failed him._

_When John’s eyes finally made it back up to meet Will’s own, there was a quirked eyebrow waiting for him and a lopsided smirk that set John’s brain back into gear and the need in his belly spiking even higher._

_Will stepped forward and rid John of the shirt caught over his wrists by the cuffs then gracefully crouched down to untangle John’s feet from his jeans, socks and boots. The sight of his dark head bobbing at groin height caused John to huff a little and bite his lip, his imagination racing ahead even as he willed himself to savour every second._

_Amused silver eyes looked up at him and long, cool fingers slipped themselves into the waistband of his pants and slid them slowly down his legs. Ignoring his extremely eager cock, Will set his nose and lips to John’s freshly exposed balls and nuzzled softly._

_John had to have a few stern words with himself about showing some control after that. The noise he’d made at that delicate, glancing touch was positively embarrassing. He pushed his hands into Will’s hair and gently and regretfully tugged him away, guiding him back up to his mouth for deep, wet, intense kisses that left him dizzy all over again._

_Dancing them slowly back to the bed, Will took John down with him onto the rumpled sheets, rolling them so John lay on his back with Will curled along his side. He let his hands explore John’s body slowly and methodically. His need was still an ache, throbbing through him with each heartbeat, but it gave John space to breathe and time to settle before he did a little exploration of his own._

_Will’s skin was warm and smooth, the planes and angles of his body firm beneath John’s fingers without the easy softness of a woman that John was more used to. It was different but no less intoxicating; in fact John revelled in it, finding resistance where he’d known flesh to yield, finding strength and short hairs where he’d known smoothness and give. To his surprise, John found that it was these very differences between male and female anatomy that were making him harder than ever – not wanting **despite** the overt masculinity, but wanting because of it. _

_Unable to wait any longer, John ran a hand down the centre of his chest and belly to Will’s groin and carefully cupped a hand around his cock, finding it hot and full to his touch, straining into his palm. With delicate fingers he traced along the shaft and over the slight ridge to the glans, silky and plump. Will sucked in a ragged breath and John marked the sensitivity making his strokes even lighter. It was gorgeous to touch, twitching and hard like himself, but dry where he was slick and with only a single, perfect bead of precome balanced at the tip of him. John daringly gathered it on his thumb and brought it to his lips to taste._

_Will’s eyes glittered darkly, as if John had given some sign that he was ready to go further – maybe he had. The sea salty taste of him exploded on his tongue and he had to swallow several times before he was able to make the words come._

_“Can I?”_

_Will nodded, never taking his hands from John’s shoulders, his neck, his face as he slid down the bed. Up close, Will’s cock was as beguiling as it had felt beneath his fingertips and John’s mouth watered at the thought of it. He pushed Will further onto his back and boldly spread his thighs so he could look and taste and touch as much as he knew he needed to._

_Will strained and bobbed at the attention, another drop of moisture welling at the slit when he breathed across his skin and John could wait no longer. He licked a slow, soft stripe up his cock from balls to tip and then took the head into his mouth and suckled._

_Will’s fingers landed heavily in the short strands of John’s hair, scrambling for purchase. The muscles of his thighs and stomach tensed and thrummed as John let his lips learn how to pleasure him. He hummed and sighed and spread himself even further, inviting John in. He groaned when John’s tongue found the bundle of nerve endings on the underside of the crown._

_“God! Oh yes, James!”_

_And that was wrong, all wrong._

_John didn’t want to hear anybody else’s name spill from those swollen, kiss-slackened lips – not even with the lie that John had fed him himself._

_He reluctantly pulled off. “John. It’s John. Say my name,” he ordered and redoubled his efforts to hear Will’s voice crack when he said it, drawing on everything he’d ever seen, experienced or read about. He licked and sucked and stroked, hollowing his cheeks and making his tongue firm against that spot that made Will shudder and hiss._

_Will’s fingers lingered on his face then, strangely gentle despite his yearning body and restless muscles. But the word still took John by surprise when he said it._

_“John.”_

_Something about the way he murmured it made it significant, as if the world had turned a fraction of a fraction on its axis and only John knew that there was a difference. He wasn’t a man given to flights of fantasy. He wasn’t even what one might have called a romantic but this was like nothing he’d done before. This was worshipful and arcane where is should have been slightly sordid and fun._

_He surged up Will’s body, smearing kisses as he went before falling into his waiting arms and kissing him as deeply and well as he knew how. He stole kisses from the bow of Will’s top lip, lifted sighs from his breaths and groaned with the slick glide of their bottom lips._

_Will gentled them, stroking his big hands down John’s back soothingly and slowing their kisses._

_“Sherlock,” he said quietly after clearing his throat. He pressed a kiss to John’s temple. “My name. It’s Sherlock.”_

_He rolled them then, straddling John’s hips, his delicious arse on John’s thighs and his cock snugged up against his own. He reached across to the bedside table and after a few moments of rummaging, produced a bottle of lubricant. John watched in a daze as Sherlock coated his hand and his prick with a generous application from the bottle. He rose onto his knees and shuffled closer before reaching down and taking both of them in his hand, stroking until John was slick too._

_John rested his palms on Sherlock’s thighs, desperate to ground himself with something before he was lost to the heat and pull of the man slowly driving him out of his mind. He slid his hands up Sherlock’s legs, noticing the way the short, dark hairs on his legs prickled a little against his skin. He lifted his head to watch as Sherlock deftly worked them, the heads of their cocks pressed together, appearing then disappearing in his long-fingered grasp. His strokes became rougher when John moaned aloud, speeding up as they matched each other’s panting breaths, gasping their pleasure._

_He was getting closer and John had to touch, determined to be a full partner in this experience. He wanted their hands to bring them this shattering sensation together. He slid further up his thigh and slotted his fingers between Sherlock’s. It was way beyond good to touch so intimately. John’s toes curled and his back arched. Something so simple, but John had lived his whole life up to that point not knowing the exquisite feeling of another man’s cock pressed to his own, solid and smooth. It was indescribable, surpassed only by the fathom deep groan that Sherlock made when John explored the head of his cock, plump and soft beneath his curious fingers._

_There was too much to process, too much to commit to memory and all happening too fast – the cool, yielding press of Sherlock’s balls against his, the scratch of his pubic hair and the way his thighs tightened around John’s hips in time with their hands. The sweat and sex scent of their exertions, heady and masculine. The flavour of Sherlock’s kisses lingering on his tongue._

_Sherlock’s curls began to stick damply to his forehead, his eyes closed as he chased his completion. The high colour on his cheeks now stained his neck and chest and John longed to taste that, to feel the heated blood thrum beneath his skin. John couldn’t have looked away if he’d wanted to._

_John came first moaning Sherlock’s name, shuddering and rigid, shooting so hard it almost felt too good. Sherlock actually growled at that, watching with glittering eyes as John came across his belly and chest, working him through it with an uncanny knack for the blurred line between perfection and oversensitivity._

_Before John could gather his wits, Sherlock leaned forward, planting a hand at John’s shoulder. His fist whipped over his own burning skin at a brutal pace for a few more seconds before he stiffened, whispering “Fuck! Fuck, John!” as he came undone, adding to the sticky evidence of their mutual satisfaction._

_Chest heaving, cheeks pink, and an unguarded grin on his face, Sherlock stooped and kissed John, deeply and slowly then toppled onto his side. He grabbed a discarded t-shirt to wipe the worst of the mess off them both, threw it away then pulled and pushed until they were both beneath the duvet._

_They lay there for several long minutes, reconnecting with little touches and tired smiles before Sherlock pinned John with a somewhat serious gaze and whispered, “Stay, John. Will you stay?”_

_He agreed without hesitation and fell asleep to the sound of passing cars, the tick of the alarm clock and Sherlock’s soft, even breaths._

**The public address system shrieks to life with a severely distorted message about a delayed arrival on platform three and John startles, lost so far in memories that for a moment he is disoriented. His heart thumps unevenly and a familiar and unwelcome rush of panic floods his body. He reaches for his coffee to cover his excessive reaction, his hand shaking so badly that the warm liquid slops crazily before he can get the mug to his lips. He swallows and focuses on his breath, listening to the rumble of trains arriving and departing, the crash of carriage doors being slammed and the infuriating beep of the little carts that plough backward and forwards at three miles per hour pulling trailers full of who knows what.**

**Eventually his heart slows and the soured adrenaline travelling around his bloodstream leaves him with a clammy nausea that he forces from his body with each breath as he was taught. There’s no smell of cordite and copper, there’s no blinding sun and no breath-stealing pain he reminds himself. That was a different life and a different John Watson.**

**It’s funny really, when he thinks about the situation. If someone wrote this down John reckons it would make a good screenplay – a Rom-Com if Sherlock’s character actually turned up. But it’s looking more and more likely this would be an Art house piece, black and white with moody lighting on John’s character sitting long after the busyness and life have left the station, only him and the pigeons waiting late into the night to mark the hours for a man who is not coming and who cannot even remember the name of that soldier he once picked up in a nightclub and spent a weekend in bed with.**

_They did not, actually, spend all weekend in bed. Sherlock woke John the next morning with new delights which gave them an appetite for a shared shower in a too tiny bathtub that ended some time later with giggles, a couple of bruises and two very sated and relaxed young men._

_John dressed in last night’s discarded clothes, listening to the sounds of Sherlock moving around the tiny kitchen. In the light of day, Sherlock’s flat was an eclectic mix of seventies décor, bizarre artefacts (was that skull **real?),** modern technology and about three hundred books, all punctuated with dirty mugs, beakers and petri dishes. His bedroom was marginally better and John was even able to rescue the lamp they had wrecked last night, although the shade would never sit straight again._

_On the bedside table there was a paper wallet from one of those photo laboratories you sent away to and with a glance over his shoulder John ‘acccidently’ knocked it onto the floor where the prints inside spilled out across the carpet. He bent down and took his time putting them back into a neat stack, flicking through them. They were obviously from someone’s birthday party being celebrated in a large, well-tended garden on a sunny day. At first John thought that Sherlock might have taken them, but on closer inspection he was in a number of the pictures although rarely the intended subject. At the bottom of the pile there was a picture of the middle-aged lady celebrating the birthday with her arm around Sherlock and although they didn’t share a lot of features in common, she had the same eyes. John assumed it was his mother. Sherlock was smiling, although it looked to be reluctantly. Immediately after this there was a print of Sherlock by himself, his face slightly turned away from the camera and clearly not aware that he was being photographed. He was dressed in a dark suit and a shirt with the collar open despite it looking to be a rather upmarket kind of party. It was a beautiful composition with the garden out of focus behind him and the sun catching each individual curl and wave in his dark hair, making him look like a model and John lingered over it._

_A muttered curse from the kitchen urged John to action and with a decision that surprised him he took the photograph and tucked it into the back pocket of his jeans, folding it along the edges quickly to make it fit. He scooped up the rest of the wallet of pictures and placed it back on the bedside table simultaneously shocked at his behaviour and adamant that he had to have the print._

_He hesitated before following Sherlock into the kitchen. He wasn’t quite sure of the etiquette after spending the night with a bloke. Should he have left already? Should he just shout ‘cheers’ as he pulled the front door shut behind him? Should he hang out and hope for Sherlock to take pity on him and let him stick around a while longer? He wanted to take Sherlock out to eat somewhere. He wanted to sit with him and watch crappy movies on TV all afternoon. There was a world-class museum on their doorstep; maybe Sherlock would like a walk around there. Or was he going mad? It seemed rather odd to be asking him on a date considering what they had spent last night doing to each other. All he knew was that he wanted more time with him, learn where he came from, find out what moved him, what his interests were. One night was not enough, not by a long shot. Sherlock had captivated him; endlessly fascinating, unbearably sexy and with a dry humour that had had John crying with laughter._

_Sherlock appeared in the doorway, dressed and perfectly poised. And really, he had no right to look as good as he did although John told himself there was a sparkle in his eye and a bounce in his step that hadn’t been there when John had first laid eyes on him. Sherlock’s shrewd gaze took in John’s awkward hovering, his attempt at making the bed and his crumpled clothes in a single glance. His lips twitched in amusement._

_“So, what does the H stand for?”_

_John blinked. “What H?”_

_“John H Watson. What’s the H stand for?”_

_Understanding dawned. “Ohh, it’s…” John stopped as another revelation came to him. He leaned back and crossed his arms. “You knew the whole time that my name wasn’t James Dennis.”_

_“Davis. And yes. It was on your ID card.”_

_“Hmm, very clever.”_

_“Yes. So, John H Watson, how are you at breaking and entering?”_

_“Ummm, I’ve never tried it,” John replied, somewhat confused. One thing he was learning was that Sherlock’s brain was like a controlled tornado - dizzying and unknowable to anyone else. John couldn’t drag his eyes away from him and that wasn’t just because he made that little groan that made him crazy when he was about to come._

_“Hmm,” Sherlock nodded seriously. “Oh, well, a first time for everything I suppose.” He turned and walked back into the chaotic kitchen, John trailing after him like a besotted dog._

_“Sorry, what? Where are we breaking in to? And why?”_

_“Scotland Yard have arrested and charged the wrong man in connection to the triple murder in Whitechapel last week,” Sherlock said in a matter-of-fact manner._

_“And you know that how?” And surely no one should look so gleeful at the mention of murder, John thought._

_“It doesn’t stack up, John. The evidence is flimsy at best. And the man has no motive.”_

_“So what does that have to do with us? You told me you were a student, not a police officer!”_

_Sherlock made a face at that and passed a mug of tea to John, precisely how he liked it, which was odd because Sherlock hadn’t seen John drink tea before. Was that on his ID card too?_

_“Oh please, John. It’s obvious. If we left all the crime solving to the police, London would be knee deep in criminals. They’re barely competent and frequently out of their depth, which is when I point them in the right direction, if they’ll let me. There’s one man at Scotland Yard who isn’t quite as incompetent as the others in that he will at least listen to me.”_

_“So this is a hobby of yours, is it?” John asked, and took a deep gulp of the beautiful brew._

_“I suppose that’s one word for it,” Sherlock conceded. “I have a gift for observation and a knack for interpreting data, identifying patterns and such. It’s something I’ve always done. It hasn’t always been appreciated, I have to say, but the puzzles of the criminal underclasses keep me from being bored. I do so hate to be bored, John.”_

_“Yes, you mentioned something about that. So you know who the murderer is?”_

_“Not exactly. But I do know it isn’t the man they currently have in custody.”_

_“What did they have to connect him to the crime scene?”_

_“A positive identification from a line up and his own lack of an alibi for that night.”_

_“But surely if they have an identification…?”_

_“People are idiots. The chances of the witness actually recalling exactly what the man seen running from the crime scene looked like from over twenty-five metres away is slight. It could have been any dark-haired, bearded man, especially in the low light conditions. It wasn’t him. I’m certain of it.”_

_“But an identification is surely quite damning. Even if they look similar…a brother? Could it have been twins?”_

_Sherlock looked at John with comical distaste written all over his face. Scathing would have been one word to describe his pained expression._

_“No, John. It’s never twins.”_

_“But if…”_

_“It’s never twins,” he repeated quite firmly and punctuated his sentence by grabbing his coat and calling over his shoulder for John to hurry up as he swept out of the flat._

_John, used to taking orders from pseudo-tyrants had never been at the beck and call of a more demanding, difficult, insulting man, but he hadn’t been able to get away from the fact that Sherlock Holmes was brilliant. His methods might have been unorthodox if not positively questionable, but no one had been able to argue with the results._

_They broke into the crime scene, an empty property on a residential street, by approaching through the suburban gardens behind the property and with Sherlock’s impressive but frankly alarming lock-picking skills._

_Sherlock span around the house, sniffing sinks, running his fingers over chair backs and crawling around on the floor searching for scuff marks and scratches while John played lookout._

_Blagging their way into the pathology labs at Bart’s later on, Sherlock remarked upon how much it eased his way, having a former Bart’s student to assist him in his subterfuge. John helped Sherlock determine the method of demise of one hapless individual, noting the bruising around his ribs and wrists, which matched the evidence that Sherlock was quickly amassing. He tried to ignore the thrill that Sherlock’s few words of praise gave him._

_John then watched in horrified wonder, at New Scotland Yard no less, as Sherlock systematically destroyed the case that one Detective Sergeant Lestrade made against the man currently awaiting Her Majesty’s pleasure by way of his profession, his left handedness and his estuary accent, much to the delight of the accused, Angelo Benedetti who found himself absolved of an impending life sentence. Of course, Sherlock then went on to explain to Lestrade that if he cared to look, there was plenty of evidence that Mr Benedetti had, in fact, been housebreaking in Fulham at the time of the witness’ sighting._

_“Unless he is able to be in two places at the same time, he cannot possibly have killed those people,” Sherlock explained._

_So Benedetti found himself released from custody only to be instantly rearrested on suspicion of burglary. He seemed completely okay with that, considering the alternative and Sherlock gained a grateful fan._

_By the time they finished at New Scotland Yard, night had fallen. Sherlock had given the Met more than enough evidence to allow them to bring in a new suspect, Martin Massey, a man known to all three victims from their local nightlife scene, but also a man with a clear and violent religious fanaticism which had led him to act against the three men._

_“He bumped into them at different gay clubs in the city, then invited them to an address in Whitechapel which he knew would be unoccupied at the time he’d specified. He’d had a duplicate key made from his days at a letting agency that had handled the property some time ago. When his guests arrived he was waiting for them.”_

_“And they were all killed at the same time?” John said thoughtfully._

_“Roughly, yes,“ Sherlock allowed. “He’d put something in their drinks or they’d taken something willingly – Massey’s plan was to make it seem like a party that had got out of hand.  One of them must have put up a fight once he realised they were being poisoned. A neighbour heard noises from a house that was meant to be empty which is why the police found them so quickly. Massey detested homosexuality with an implacable zeal, but he was obviously a decent actor. He never hunted in the same place twice and he played the part of a ‘safe’ hook–up convincingly enough that they were taken in by him.”_

_John was suddenly struck by something Sherlock had said earlier._

_“So when you said that you’d been looking for someone at the club, you actually meant that you’d been there looking for someone…for Massey.”_

_“Yes, of course,” Sherlock replied, his tone tinged with impatience. “What did you think I…Ohhhh! I see.” His face lit up in understanding which became a smirk. “You thought I was…”_

_“Well, it…I didn’t think you were…”_

_They both stopped and John cleared his throat. It was nothing to do with him, he knew that. He’d only known Sherlock for a day but the hollow tumble in his stomach at the thought of him with another man was still unexpected and unpleasant._

_Sherlock paused, licked his lips and looked down. “”I’m not in the habit of picking up men every night, John. People, on the whole, tend to lose interest once I start speaking,” he admitted softly._

_“Well, people are idiots,” John muttered dismissively and had to look away when Sherlock seemed surprised and quietly pleased._

_Sherlock chuckled at his discomfort, which made John look up and smile in return. The moment stretched, each of them apparently unwilling to be the one who looked away first._

_“Dinner?” Sherlock asked finally, as they lingered on the pavement outside the glass and metal hulk of the Metropolitan Police headquarters._

_“God, yes! I’m starving,” John replied honestly. Sherlock had little time for anything other than his deductions when he was on the case and the combination of a day of running around after him and the night he’d spent in his bed had left John in dire need of a good meal._

_They compromised on takeaway back at the flat, which quickly become snogging on the sofa and an invitation to spend the night. Once again, John didn’t hesitate, having tasted the delights on offer; he was more than keen to extend his stay. He was surprised by how quickly Sherlock had made a place for himself in John’s world. John had never had a sexual encounter with a man that had lasted for longer than it took to get off and then tuck himself away. He’d spent the first part of the evening he’d met Sherlock wondering what it might be like to take his time with a man, to actually get completely naked and find out if his attraction to men was opportunistic or something more deep-rooted and ended the evening in the bed of a man who had seemed to know him and his needs better than John knew them himself._

_One thing was for certain. He wished he’d met Sherlock a lot earlier. Years earlier._

**His coffee is almost done and so is he. He’ll go back to his bedsit, open the whiskey he bought last week for just this outcome and drink until he blacks out. And then tomorrow he will wake up and decide what he’s going to do with the rest of his life now there is no date on his calendar to make him keep putting one foot in front of the other.**

**He wonders how has his life come to this? He’s thirty-four years old with an honourable discharge from the British Army, a limp and a shoulder that is so scarred and damaged that his skin there is knotted and thick. He has very little money, no job and has been waiting eight years to reconnect with a man he met once and stayed with for a few days who made him feel more whole in that time than he has ever felt at any other point in his sad little life. A man who never said “I love you,” or “Don’t go,” but who said, “When will you be back?” and  “I’ll see you then.”**

**Not that John’s been an angel, pining away for his one true love all the time he’s been away. He’s taken opportunities when they’ve come his way. There’s nothing like a war to make you realise how fleeting such chances can be, and nothing like watching young people die senseless deaths to understand that each day could be his last and that comfort should be taken wherever it’s to be found. Sex is sex, and he’s been lucky enough to have the opportunity to get his share while far from home, but something about Sherlock and the memory of that weekend has stayed with him. When the nights had bled into days and the losses had outweighed the saves, it had been the memory of quicksilver eyes, a deep laugh that cracked into a childish giggle and dark, floppy curls that he’d sought solace in. In a place of burning days, freezing nights, constant danger, too little sleep and more blood than any man should have to stomach, in his mind it was always a rainy Sunday afternoon in a messy little flat in a smart London street that was waiting for him whenever he finally got to close his eyes.**

**It was that weekend he’d fled to in his head when he’d been shot. It had taken some time to extract the survivors after the ambush and even after he’d been transported to the field hospital, stabilised and sent on for his fight through infection, trauma and rehabilitation, it was the possibility that Sherlock might be waiting for him, probably impatiently, on platform eight of St Pancras Station on a cold January day that had given purpose to John’s struggle back to health.**

**John fiddles with his mug and tries to ease the ache in his shoulder by rolling his neck, when his attention is drawn to the man seating himself at the next table. They are the only two customers and there are plenty of other seats the man could have taken. He doesn’t look like the kind of customer this café is used to attracting – or any café in fact. He’s polite enough when the eager young barista comes over to take his order though.**

**“Tea. Do you have Earl Grey?”**

**The barista apologises and offers him Chai instead. The man smiles…sort of, it looks like it is meant to resemble a smile, but that it somehow pains him. “No thank you, just a tea, please. Milk, no sugar. To go, if you’d be so kind.”**

**The man sets his umbrella against his seat and looks directly at John who has, admittedly, been staring.**

**“So difficult to get a decent cup of tea nowadays,” he says, his voice cultured and rounded. John gets the impression that he’s a lot younger than the suit, the umbrella and the demeanour suggest.**

**John smiles in that polite British way that means, ‘I’ve heard you, but I don’t want to have a conversation with you, so let’s not make eye contact again, alright?’ The man, although clearly British, doesn’t seem to know this unspoken rule.**

**“I suppose I’m expecting too much from a station café. It’s not the kind of place one lingers over a hot drink unless one has a good reason, is it?”**

**John looks up at that because that’s exactly what he’s doing. Eight years ago his train would have been pulling away now and he’s been here for over an hour, not wanting to risk being delayed on his journey there, or worried that he might miss Sherlock or concerned that his own memory has played a trick on him about the time he’d left (even though he knows damn well that it hasn’t.)**

**“Or nowhere better to be,” John replies, clipped and wary. Has this idiot been watching him? And if so, why?**

**“True enough,” the man allows and tries out his smile again, as the guy from the counter brings his tea. Scary smile hands him a fiver and waves away the change. “But things can change when you least expect them to, in my experience. It’s just a case of watching out for the opportunities and being courageous enough to take them. You don’t look like the kind of man who has ever had any difficulty with reckless bravery.” The man’s eyes stray momentarily to the hated walking cane that John has propped against his table.**

**John stares, quite dumfounded by this bizarre conversation. Who is this man who talks about him as if he knows him? John’s sure he’s never set eyes on him before – he’s pretty sure he’d remember this guy.**

**“Look,” John begins, irritated out of his torpor. But the strange man is already on his feet, tipping his cup at John in a toast.**

**“I’ll leave you to your opportunities,” he says and turns on his heel. “Keep watching for them, Dr Watson.”**

**Scary smile is already walking away, pausing to drop his untouched tea in the closest bin as he goes, and is quickly swallowed up by the crowd of commuters.**

_They spent Sunday at the flat. When John began to make noises about leaving because he needed clean clothes, Sherlock declared that they would spend the day naked instead rather than waste valuable time going all the way to John’s horrible hotel._

_They scrounged up a late breakfast of eggs and toast and drank bottomless mugs of tea in bed with a packet of chocolate biscuits, which seemed to be one of the few things in the kitchen that was edible. Sherlock lit the fire in his bedroom, and they lounged around under the duvet and took it in turns to read from the newspaper that Sherlock had acquired (stolen) from a neighbour. John challenged himself to find crime stories for Sherlock to deduce and Sherlock read random snippets of stories about the great and the good accompanied by his own, often scandalous interpretations of their actions or remarks. He seemed to have a knowledge of the political scene that he attributed to his brother’s influence, a man with no job title who seemed, nevertheless, to have his finger in many important pies. This was later borne out by John’s clothes and personal effects turning up at Sherlock’s door along with a note that his bill had been paid._

_“I can’t let your brother pay my bloody hotel bill!” John exclaimed from Sherlock’s bed where he’d hidden from the knock at the door. “He doesn’t know me from Adam!”_

_“Oh, let him!” Sherlock replied, stalking back to the warm spot he’d made at John’s side earlier, shedding his dressing gown like a snake’s skin. “It makes him happy. He thinks he’s being clever by demonstrating that he’s aware of my comings and goings. If I don’t give him the satisfaction once in a while, he overeats or destabilises the governments of small countries just to irritate people.”_

_Sherlock swiftly derailed any further argument about hotel bills or creepy sibling surveillance by straddling John’s hips and proceeding to kiss him to within an inch of losing his sanity. Sherlock kissed as if it was the only thing in the world worth doing. He created a slip in the day’s hours, a space where nothing else existed but his lips, his tongue, his breath and his approving sighs. His body thrumming with need but with no hurry to get anywhere soon, John was lost in it._

_He gazed up at Sherlock, all red lips and wild curls and in a moment of rapture said, “Sherlock Holmes. What have I done to deserve you?”_

_Sherlock stopped and blinked rapidly as if stunned, then sprang into action, diving to one side and fishing down beside the mattress returning with John’s jeans, which, with a little rummaging, yielded condoms._

_“Hey, how did you know…?” John muttered but Sherlock ignored him and reached into his bedside drawer for a bottle of lube._

_“John…do you…will you?”_

_It was John’s turn to stare. “You… you want me to…?”_

_“Yes!” Sherlock hissed, squirming in John’s lap until his arse was intimately acquainted with John’s straining cock. Suddenly all the slowly building heat between them became urgent. Of course John wanted to! Sherlock was perfect and responsive and John’s cock wanted nothing more than to bury itself in that heat and the desire that matched his own. But he had never done this before and even though he reached up and dragged Sherlock into a filthy, breath-stealing kiss, he knew that all the enthusiasm and want in the world would not be enough to turn him into an experienced lover._

_“Is that a yes?” Sherlock rumbled, smiling against John’s lips._

_“You need to show me,” John panted, their foreheads pressed together._

_With a firm kiss Sherlock sank back and John watched breathlessly as he ripped open the packet and rolled a condom down onto him slowly, taking his time to make sure he touched every inch of him. A slick of lube from the bottle and John had to close his eyes tightly to stop himself from coming right then._

_With enviable grace Sherlock flowed forward, lifted himself up onto his knees and reached back to hold John steady while he brought the tip of John’s cock to his entrance._

_“Sh.. Sherlock, don’t I need to… shouldn’t I…. are you…?” John gave up trying to make sentences._

_“Normally that would be good, but I have already taken care of it. You can do it next time,” Sherlock rumbled, his cheeks flushed crimson and his eyes half hooded. He began to sink down exquisitely slowly taking his time to open to John who found himself greedy for the expressions that flitted across Sherlock’s face - from deep concentration through bitten lips and gasped breaths to slack jawed pleasure. And all the while he felt Sherlock’s body adjusting and accepting him like the tightest, hottest grasp imaginable. Made to measure, just for him._

_When he finally settled with John seated deeply inside him, Sherlock opened his eyes and captured John with a look so utterly unguarded, so open that John almost wondered if he had imagined it. For a second John saw Sherlock seeing himself through his eyes. For a man so good at knowing the tells that other people let slip, he looked momentarily stunned by John’s gaze – as if he’d deduced something that had never occurred to him before and, not for the first time, John wondered how much of Sherlock’s life was spent inside his head, too worried to reveal who he was and what he could do for fear of rejection._

_He shifted just the tiniest bit and a full body shudder broke the moment, rippling its way up Sherlock’s thighs and torso._

_Sherlock began to rock, small flowing movements that had John groaning at how good it felt within an embarrassingly short time. He’d known he wouldn’t last long with six foot of creamy-skinned, tousle-haired genius riding his cock. He bent his knees and began to add a little counter-rhythm of his own. At Sherlock’s encouraging moan, he reached out and took Sherlock’s silky, firm length into his hand. Although the shaft was smooth and stiff, his fascination with the crown endured and he touched it with curious fingers, noting that it barely registered beneath his fingertips it was so velvety._

_“God, you feel so good,” John breathed. “Look at you!”_

_Sherlock opened heavy-lidded eyes, which locked onto John’s. “Your hands,” Sherlock murmured. “Your touch is so confident. Perfect. Never too light.” He moaned exquisitely when John demonstrated, pushing his thumb against the slit and spreading the drop of precome he found there across the tip of him._

_With a few false starts they found a pace and motion that gave them both what they needed, holding it together until the last minute when Sherlock arched his back and cried out, making certain that John’s cock rubbed him just so. John felt Sherlock swell in his palm and sped up, lifting his hips to meet Sherlock’s rise and fall, delighting in the slap of their skin in the quiet room and the grunts and groans of two men only ready to find their own pleasure if it included the other._

_Sherlock came in impressive quantity, marking John’s body, another pulse each time John nudged his prostate. It only took a few more thrusts for John to follow, shooting deep inside Sherlock’s body as they trembled and rocked together._

_Catching their breaths and stealing lazy, dazed kisses they made a cursory attempt at cleaning up. John lay on his side, his head propped on his palm, watching Sherlock doze as the rain clattered against the windows and gurgled in the drains outside. A deep sense of peace that had nothing to do with the sex had pervaded John’s body._

_“I know almost nothing about you,” he murmured half to himself._

_Sherlock hummed, yawned and, after a moment, opened an eye. “Problem?” he asked._

_“Nope. I don’t know whether it’s better that way when all things are considered,” John said, a little more honestly than he’d intended._

_Sherlock opened both eyes then and regarded John with a long, penetrating look._

_“I’m twenty-one, studying for my masters in forensic chemistry at Imperial, I play the violin, sometimes I do not talk for days at a stretch, I abhor stupidity and boredom and have been known to be rather reckless in my attempts to avoid them. I prefer Italian food to French and have a brother who is too nosy for his own good. I like books, Hob-Nobs and army medical officers called John. So what **does** the H stand for?”_

_John took a second to understand what Sherlock was asking. “Oh no!” He gave Sherlock a gentle shove. “I’m asking the questions, remember?”_

_Sherlock shrugged. ”I’ll find out anyway.”_

_“Good luck with that, and in the meantime you want tell me why Will?”_

_“Oh, it actually is my name.”_

_John rolled his eyes at him but Sherlock persisted._

_“William Sherlock Scott Holmes,” he explained, his consonants crisp and almost mocking._

_John simply nodded. “And this is what you do, is it? Bunk off studying to run around London with the Met just to prove you’re clever?”_

_“Now why would I do that?” Sherlock asked with a scoff._

_“Because you’re an idiot.”_

_Sherlock searched John’s face for a moment, and then smiled in return. “I do so hate to be bored, John.”_

_“Alright, so isn’t there anything you want to know about me? Favourite colour? Favourite food? Likes and dislikes?”_

_Sherlock’s grin grew wide and smug. “You’re twenty six. You studied medicine but instead of general practice you chose to sign up. You used to play team sports, possibly rugby but probably football. You’ve lived in lets, halls or army accommodation for years so you don’t really consider anywhere specific to be home and you’re not close to your surviving family. You’re naturally tidy but dislike obsessive cleanliness. You don’t have a favourite food. You do, however, have an adventurous streak that you indulge less than you’d like and that goes for your career choices, your sexual preferences and your choice of world cuisines. Your favourite colour is blue but you always say it’s green because blue is too predictable. You like popular fiction, Hob Nobs and rakish, dark-haired young men by the name of Sherlock.”_

_“Brilliant,” John muttered, watching the way Sherlock’s eyes sparkled the further he went into his deductions._

_They left the flat as it began to get dark and made a brisk trip to a nearby corner shop where they managed to purchase an eclectic basket full of food while Sherlock mumbled about John being ruled by his stomach and John replied quite tartly about having to keep his strength up._

_Not for the first time that weekend, John was struck by how he’d expected this weekend to go and what he’d actually ended up with. From actively going out on Friday night to find a male sexual partner (and the vague scenarios he’d almost talked himself out of it with) to lying in this beautiful, unusual, fascinating man’s bed on a rainy Sunday afternoon, whiling away the day with kisses and touches and laughter and an overwhelming sense of belonging that John had rarely ever experienced. Not only had he found that he was attracted to the male form (other than in an abstract way), and that he enjoyed sex with a man, but more than that he’d learned that he had the capacity to be in a relationship with a man given the opportunity and the chemistry._

_What he’d also discovered was that, had he had the time, he could have fallen in love with Sherlock Holmes all too easily. What he didn’t know was whether that had actually already begun._

**John draws in a breath and lets it out slowly. He tries to school his face into a mask that doesn’t reflect every damn emotion that wells up inside him, certain that he used to be able to do it. He fights the impulse to put his head in his hands and just hide there for a few moments. There are too many people coming and going past this draughty, sad, little corner of a major London station. People will think he’s odd, or worse, they will see his cane, and stop to try and ‘help’.**

**So the man didn’t turn up – so what? These things happen every day. Hearts get broken, dreams get shattered but life goes on. It’s nobody’s fault but his own that he’s used this date as his own personal line in the sand. He hadn’t thought very deeply on what would happen after today, even if Sherlock Holmes had turned up – that’s how ridiculous he is. But a pleasant memory from a distance of eight years has become a watershed the closer it has come – a point where his life will begin again, as if he’s been holding his breath the whole time he was on deployment and in recovery from his injury. What a fool he’s been.**

**Even if Sherlock had turned up it’s unlikely he would have recognised the man John was now and even more unlikely that he’d be interested in a broken, traumatised, limping John Watson – he’s hardly the bright young thing he’d once been.**

**He’s thirty-four for Christ’s sake – he’s seen too much and lived too long to believe in happily ever afters, soul mates or fate. He won’t allow himself to admit that he’s completely adrift now. He just needs to make some plans that don’t involve tall, handsome, slightly odd geniuses. He doesn’t blame Sherlock – he can’t – they were different people back then. John knows he’s not the same man every time he looks in the mirror when he shaves and sees a stranger’s eyes staring back at him.  Undoubtedly they both need different things now and while Sherlock has likely got on with his life and almost certainly rarely recalls their time together, John has not. He has pinned too much on this date, on this man and on what he had imagined they’d said. He needs to move on too.**

**He has a roof over his head for now. He needs to find a job if he wants to stay in London; his army pension isn’t going to go far in the city. Maybe he can go and see his sister for a few days – if there’s anything that will take his mind off things, it’s his recently dumped sister whose drinking has cost her her marriage. Misery loves company, they say and Harry will be so caught up in losing Clara, she won’t even notice that John’s life has come tumbling down around his ears – she probably thinks that happened with a bullet. John knows that’s what he should think too.**

**He puts his head in his hands.**

_They’d spent their last day together dozing, kissing and slumming about the flat again. At first Sherlock had seemed to weigh up every sentence before he’d let it lose, then watch John closely for its impact. But when John had shown neither waning enthusiasm for his words nor any lack of synonyms for ‘fantastic’ as the day had worn on, Sherlock had relaxed and their conversations had flowed, teasing and warm. They’d talked about Sherlock’s studies and John’s training. They’d talked about books they had read and trips they had taken. They’d shared stories about London – its quirks and its surprising beauty where you’d least expected it. Sherlock had related a few of the cases he’d been allowed to participate in and John had admired the cleverness of him. They’d talked like old friends, well used to each other’s company, easy with each other in a way that shouldn’t have been possible for two men who had only met three days earlier. It wasn’t until late into the evening that John recognised what they hadn’t spoken about was anything yet to occur – no mention of plans or hopes or worries had been made and John wondered if that had been an unconscious choice on both their parts._

_Neither of them had been particularly tired by the time night fell again. When midnight rolled around, John finished the glass of wine he’d been nursing, stood up and offered his hand to Sherlock. Somehow all the words they’d exchanged that day had dried up. Sherlock looked at John long and hard, then took his hand and let himself be led back to his bedroom where the sheets were still a messy tangle, which smelled slightly of their sleepy sweat, biscuit crumbs and sex._

_They lay down together, curled in each other’s arms. There was no rush, no destination in mind at all but John found himself trying to leave a soft fingerprint on every centimetre of Sherlock’s skin while Sherlock couldn’t seem to look away from John’s face, as if committing everything to memory in minutest detail. In the end it happened naturally, as these things do when you’re young and an idiot. After what felt like hours of whispered touches and grazing fingertips, they found themselves at the peak of their desire for each other and, rolling into each other, they came one after the other, or was it together – it hardly mattered by then, soaked in each other as they were. And then they slept._

_They couldn’t wait for the sun, lazy to rise on a January morning. They got up and ready with the streetlights still on outside and in silence. John took the first shower and was already buttoned into his uniform by the time Sherlock returned from the bathroom. He hadn’t stopped to stare but John had felt his eyes on him all the same as he’d dressed in yet another fitted shirt and tight jeans combination._

_“I’d better get going,” John said, his voice raspy and reluctant._

_“I’m going to take a look at another one of Lestrade’s cases over in Mile End – it’s in the same direction. We can share a cab,” Sherlock said quickly, a frown chasing across his face before a blank, impassive mask settled over him. It made him look older and John felt a whisper of unease at how effectively it closed him off from Sherlock._

_“Okay,” John replied and cleared his throat. “Okay.”_

_The taxi ride was quiet after John gave the cabbie the name of the station. John had never been more grateful for a silent taxi driver – he didn’t think he’d be able to make small talk if someone held a gun to his head._

_He caught sight of himself in the reflection in the window. His attitude to his uniform had suffered a dramatic shift since the previous week. He’d always loved it – he was proud of what the uniform stood for and what he had invested personally to wear it. Now he eyed it with distaste because it had come to represent all the reasons why he had to go. It felt like it was suffocating him. He twisted his neck to loosen the sudden tightness at his throat. Only a week ago, he’d resented the delay in his deployment. How could one weekend have made him consider, however unrealistically, the alternative ways his life could have unfolded but still brought him to this point?_

_A flicker of movement in his peripheral vision drew John’s eye to find Sherlock watching him in the reflection. The sky was beginning to lighten now, but inside the cab it was still dark. The noise of the engine and of the traffic around them added to John’s feeling of the surreal as the silence between them thickened._

_Sherlock’s hand lay on the seat between them and John saw in it one last chance to acknowledge and be acknowledged by this man who had been meant to be a fling or an experience and had ended up ensnaring John in questions and revelations he hadn’t anticipated at all. John figured that he had little left to lose by moving his own hand to lie beside his and curling his little finger around Sherlock’s. He was half convinced that his gesture would be rebuffed or ignored but Sherlock allowed it, even reciprocating for a moment with a gentle fingertip stroked across his knuckle. Sherlock’s dark-haired head bowed to look at their entwined fingers but he said nothing and didn’t look across at John._

_John wondered whether in his mind Sherlock was returning to the real world after their weekend out of time. He missed the sharp, uncompromising gaze, which he had found, directed at him every time he’d glanced at Sherlock. Now the man would barely look him in the eye and he’d spent the morning avoiding him wherever possible, addressing unavoidable comments to the wall or his shoulder._

_The station was a mess of taxis and commuters and noise and motion. It finally brushed away the last remnants of the little world they had created together, erasing it forever. The cab driver paused the meter and John reluctantly slipped his finger from Sherlock’s to find his wallet and hand the man some banknotes._

_“Can you take me on to Harford Street?” Sherlock barked quickly and sank back further into his seat. Still Sherlock wouldn’t look at him, so John gathered up his kit bag and his beret and bit his lip in an effort not to say something he’d live to regret. Clearly Sherlock had already moved on, his next case probably already utmost in that brilliant mind._

_What did you say in a situation like this? The words that wanted a voice were anything but appropriate and without Sherlock’s smile or his approval John found himself struck mute._

_He opened the door to the cab and stepped out into the sudden bitter coldness of the day. He hesitated then ducked his head to catch one more glimpse of Sherlock whose face was carefully impassive. “Goodbye, Sherlock. Thank you,” he said simply and swung the door shut. He stepped back and watched the cab peel away from the kerb and resolutely turned his face towards the station._

_He stood in line and bought a ticket and determinedly didn’t think about Sherlock’s elusive smile or the way he picked at his meals but relished sweet snacks. He scanned the board for his platform and, seeing that he only had a few minutes before the train departed, he ran across the concourse, his bag over his shoulder. He found his platform, stepping up into the first carriage he came to. With his bag safely stowed in the rack above him, he sat down in a seat miraculously free of any adjacent passengers, breathing a sigh of relief.  His uniform invited comments and, just like the taxi, he knew he hadn’t the heart to sit and make chitchat with anyone, no matter how well-meaning._

_He tucked his beret under his epaulette, sat back in his seat and ran a hand over his face. Maybe tonight whenever and wherever he ended up sleeping, he would revisit this weekend, this experience, this moment, but right now he had to put his messed-up explosion of emotions and impressions aside and focus on putting his feet, one in front of the other and letting them walk him onto the base and into the aircraft that would be carrying him away from grey skies and familiarity to the unknown. Where he’d wanted to be just a few short days ago._

_He couldn’t think about Sherlock or the might-have-beens or the what –ifs. It wouldn’t help him. He’d miscalculated and that was all on him. Even Sherlock had shown him the way forward. Being grateful for the experience. Enjoying the moment. And then moving on._

_The sound of slamming doors and a whistle broke through John’s pep talk. He wished he’d bought a paper or something to distract him. Idly he looked out of the window and straight into the face of a tall, young hesitant looking man._

_Sherlock lifted his eyebrows and quirked a self-deprecating smile._

_John’s heart jolted in his chest. He tipped his head to one side in question._

_“How long?” Sherlock mouthed._

_How long what? How long until the train went? How long since the taxi had driven him away? Sherlock’s eyes dipped to the insignia on his chest. John breathed hard as understanding bloomed.  There were only seconds before the train pulled away._

_He shrugged. He held up four fingers, then six, then eight and shook his head. He’d enlisted while he was still at University, signing away a chunk of his life and feeling it a good exchange for the price of his tuition at the time. He’d been told two tours with a buy out clause that he’d never be able to afford after one._

_Sherlock seemed to deflate at that, but after a moment’s thought he rolled his eyes and muttered something that John could guess at quite easily. He searched his pockets and obviously coming up short, he turned and nabbed a newspaper from under the elbow of a cross-looking businessman who’d had the misfortune to pass by with something Sherlock needed. He said something sharp, but Sherlock simply held up a finger to him and stepped forward to hold the paper against the window with his finger under the date, 29 thJanuary._

_When John looked up in confusion, Sherlock simply looked at him, and god, it was good to be able to look into those fathomless eyes one more time. He tapped the date again, looked at his watch and then curled his finger to point at the platform, with a nod of his head._

_29 thJanuary. 9.33 a.m. St Pancras Station. _

_“When?” John mouthed, not quite believing what he was seeing. “What year?”_

_Passing the paper back over his shoulder to the disgruntled businessman without looking at him, Sherlock held up four fingers, then five, six, seven, eight until he ran out of digits and simply shrugged._

_John blinked, an incredulous smile spreading across his face and a feeling of breathlessness. He nodded just as the train began its slide from the station platform. John jumped up, watching as Sherlock stepped back._

_“Be careful,” he mouthed._

_John nodded again and pointed a finger at him, “You too.” The train was slow, but picking up speed and Sherlock was already falling behind, the few steps he’d taken to follow no match for the train. John leaned against the window and raised a hand. Craning his neck to watch Sherlock do the same, as he grew smaller and smaller and finally disappeared from view as the train took a slow curve out of the station._

**John takes a deep breath, places his hands on his knees and straightens in his seat. He shouldn’t be surprised that the world is still turning and that people are getting on with life all around him with all their everyday disasters and quiet triumphs, but he is. A feeling of stillness settles upon him, like the lightest of veils separating him from everything else, visible but indistinct.**

**Time to go.**

**He grasps the handle of his cane and gets to his feet, relishing the protest in his muscles and the sting of his cold fingers – tiny, brilliant points of sensation in a world that is suddenly dulled.**

**He checks his wallet is in his pocket, zips up his jacket and steps out onto the concourse. He’s not actively avoiding the passengers, just like he’s not blocking out the echoing announcements or ignoring the bright, migraine-inducing advertising, yet somehow he is moving through the station unimpeded by their distraction now. He has nowhere to be, but suddenly there is nothing slowing him down in getting there.**

**The slick moulded plastic of his cane handle is the only thing that feels real and immediate – everything else is already at a distance, irrelevant and receding. Even though he is moving, he has no perception of such, feeling like a fixed point around which everything is spinning away into infinity.**

**His breaths sound loud and slow to him as he turns his head, looking for an exit onto the street wondering if he will simply disperse into the sky above London when he reaches the dirty air outside.**

**And that’s when he sees it.**

**Another point of stillness.**

**And although he can’t see what it is, obscured by passing people and noise and pigeons flapping ash grey wings, it catches his eye and he stops. A man with a buggy, the toddler pointing, arms stiff with padded sleeves and childish excitement. A tired, elderly woman slowing to toss a coin into a busker’s violin case. A blue-haired teenager and one with tattoos curling up the back of her neck and spilling onto her jaw, arms linked and laughing as they run for a departing train.**

**A tall man in a long, dark coat standing utterly still in a place where nothing else is.**

**Nothing else but John.**

**It seems to take a hundred years and less than a second for this man to cover the distance that divides them.**

**He’s taller and more imposing than John remembers, but his coltish gait and youthful angles have become graceful and measured. His hair is still dark but his curls have been stylishly tamed. There are lines on his face, just beginning but mapping already how he will look in a decade or three.**

**And his eyes. God, his eyes. Unwavering. Patient. Knowing.**

**Sherlock Holmes.**

**Standing right in front of him. Not an arm’s length away. He could put a hand on the thick wool weave of his coat if he reached out, right now, and…**

**… Ah, that’s his hand. He already has.**

**Sherlock’s gaze drops to where they are touching, licks his lips and inhales, preparing to speak.**

**“You’re late,” John says, his voice scratchy but sure.**

**Sherlock’s mouth clamps together and his eyebrows rise. Slowly, slowly his lip curls into a lopsided smile. “Unavoidable, I’m afraid. Traffic was shocking. Besides, I’ve been on time for the last four years whereas you’ve been noticeably absent.”**

**John grins up at the smug git, fighting and failing to keep some semblance of calm, and watches as Sherlock’s smile drifts apart as slowly as it came. He’s noticed the cane? He’s seen the greys already beginning to thread through John’s hair. He came to say that his promise is fulfilled and to wish John a good life? Maybe John is just hallucinating and this whole thing is in his head?**

**Sherlock licks his lips again, glances at the floor and back up into John’s face. He frowns.**

**John straightens, pulls his hand back from the cool, damp fabric of Sherlock’s coat. Instinctively he knows he needs to be standing unaided for whatever happens next.**

**“John, I…” Sherlock pauses and John thinks he might be skipping entire seconds of time, because Sherlock’s face looks as if he’s puzzled or pained and John has missed anything that might cause either.**

**“I should have kissed you goodbye.”**

**All of John’s breath leaves his body in an instant in something between a sigh, a whimper and a laugh. The feels giddy and tearful and sick. He feels invincible. Eight years melt away like nothing. Eight years of hardship and injury and upheaval and trauma – all suddenly resolve into a price worth paying a hundred times over.**

**“Well, lucky for you, you still have time. I’m not going anywhere just yet.”**

**Sherlock’s smile comes quicker this time. He bites his lips, looks around them and nods. And he leans down to place his lips achingly gently on John’s. They are as soft and warm as John remembers, full and expressive and addictive and it’s much, much too soon when Sherlock pulls back with a hum and a sigh.**

**“Shall we?” He gestures towards the exit and waits while John switches his cane to the other hand. They fall in beside each other.**

**“I told you to be careful,” Sherlock mutters quietly as they match their pace to each other and to the rest of the myriad people going about their Thursdays unaware of the miracle that is happening right under their very noses.**

**“This was careful,” John argues. “I came back.”**

**Sherlock hums, clearly unconvinced.**

**With sudden clarity, John recognises something. Maybe his voice, his tone or a half-forgotten comment. “I think I just met your brother.”**

**“Eugh!” Sherlock spits. He scowls at the architecture, his venomous gaze quickly zeroing in on a CCTV camera perched on the corner of W.H. Smith’s. He turns to face it squarely and mouths an inventive string of obscenities at it before putting a possessive hand to the small of John’s back and turning them back toward the exit.**

**“So, John Watson. I always meant to ask.”**

**John tips his head and looks across at this man, this unlikely, brilliant, captivating man. He could be about to say anything, anything at all. You just never knew with Sherlock Holmes what was going to happen next. And John would sign up for all of it without a second’s hesitation.**

**“What’s that?” he asks, knocking his hand against Sherlock’s who takes it and laces their fingers together, all startling warmth and welcome.**

**“John? What does the H stand for?”**

**Fin**

**Author's Note:**

> For Pepe and Salads, as always. 
> 
> Title taken from a song by Hem. 
> 
> I know others have written 'John goes to war' stories, and I'm certain mine won't compare, but it popped into my head as I was listening to the song listed above and took root. I couldn't find out how long a doctor would serve in the RAMC despite extensive googling, so sorry if that's inaccurate. All mistakes are my own.
> 
> ETA... Podfixx has made a gorgeous version of this here - https://archiveofourown.org/works/20424224. Treat your ears!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] Almost Home](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20424224) by [Podfixx](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Podfixx/pseuds/Podfixx)




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